A.L.I.C.E.

I do not get paid enough to be a martyr

But I’d die to save my students.

I do not get paid enough to be a martyr

But I’d die to save my students.

How morbid is it

To imagine the outlines of bodies

In different colors of the sidewalk chalk

bullet holes through my bulletin board

And my rainbow carpet stained mono-color?

We did not learn literacy or math

Techniques this year.

We learned

How to build barriers to hold

A classroom door shut

After opening it wide to families;

How to distract a gunman

Using my students to help-

I am supposed to be a savior.

But how can I save my students

When we cannot confront the truth

Behind the gunman in the room-

They will never call him terrorist.

Never acknowledge that our

Biggest threats are found

In the homeland

Where the assassin is supplied

Weapons from the same people

Who will prosecute him

If he dares to use them.

The families of the victims are

Left with homes that feel

More like vaults: holding the living

And the dead all in one place.

The world no longer spins for them.

It is stuck on its axis like a rusted globe

filled with memories and “could have been’s”

And clothes that will

Never outgrow their children.

They have begged us to care

About the piece of them

That is missing.

The NRA,

Not really alarmed

Will argue arming our teachers,

And securing our schools

Avoiding the blood

On their hands- I mean weapons;

Ignoring their signature

On the death certificates-

I mean proof of purchase...

They will say the guns

Weren’t for him

While wearing a blindfold

To the mental health status

Of the 27 million buyers

Each year

Only crossing their fingers

That 1 out of 27 million

Won’t have a psychotic break,

Except

1 in 5 have a mental illness.

What the NRA really means is

We hold our gun rights closer

Than our children’s right to life.

My job is viewed by many as babysitting,

Has encompassed the role of nurse, mother,

social worker, police, leader, guidance counselor,

and now army general-

I call the shots when the shots have been fired.

I call the shots

When the shots

Have been fired.

I do not get paid enough to be a martyr

But I’d die to save my students

Though my students could be called casualties

Though my classroom could be called battlefield

Though the gunman will never be called terrorist.

My students will be forgotten

Footprints washed away by the incoming tide

America: do you care how many children have died?

The casualties will only be statistics

A numerical value only valid

When the next massacre

Occurs.

The classroom, an empty cocoon

Robbed of its caterpillars

Our children are dying.

And I am worried I will not

Be enough to protect them.

I am just a teacher.

I do not get paid enough to be a martyr

But I’d die to save my students

I will die to save my students

Because America wants to

live with its right to bear arms.